


if I'm nothing more than skin

by nap_princess



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with Unhappy Ending, Bad Ending, F/M, For those of you who don't know me well; know that this is a joke fic to me, Frozen-verse-ish, Hans is sorta a boy toy — but that will be explained later, I had 3 brain cells and all 3 died while I was writing this, I tried Helsathots — sorry it's not smut; this is the best I could do, discount smut?, doomed romance, is this … smut?, just trust me, okay maybe don't trust me — i have no idea what I'm doing, somewhat of a plot lol, well maybe not smut but an attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27667771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nap_princess/pseuds/nap_princess
Summary: He imagines no matter what he does, he will never be preferable— HansElsa, Frozen-verse-ish
Relationships: Elsa/Hans (Disney)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	if I'm nothing more than skin

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bad Influence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5825584) by [BettyBiscay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BettyBiscay/pseuds/BettyBiscay). 
  * Inspired by [e.v.o.l](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/716228) by Marina and the Diamonds. 



**if I'm nothing more than skin**

* * *

**i**

_Elsa_

* * *

She _favours_ him, but the weight of the crown is heavy on her head and her queenly duties are suffocating.

He is the thirteenth son of a tiny kingdom. So small it rests scattered on islands. So small that her royal council does not even consider him as a suitor. He isn’t even preferable. The councilmen whisper that he shouldn’t even be here, acting as the ambassador of the Southern Isles.

_“What good is the experience he earns in Arendelle? He’s too far down the line to put his knowledge to use, the crown is out of his reach with each birth of a new nephew,"_

Her distant relatives and her people silently agree that the Queen is getting too close for comfort to a scoundrel like him. She can see the expressions they make; the barely concealed glances, the stinging accusations behind fake smiles and the unsaid remarks.

* * *

They judge him too harshly, and he is no blundering fool to not see the mistreatment.

She supposes that's how it all started, she knows him well enough to notice his nasty habit. He won't say it out loud, but he _hates_ people looking down at him for something as inferior as birth rank.

"It's not something I have control over," He tells her over tea once. "It's ridiculous."

She replies, "You're angry," 

It isn't a question, more of an observation, but he hikes up a red brow at her words regardless.

"You think so?" Sarcasm is laced in his tone. He's the only person who's reckless enough to speak to her in such a manner.

"I know so." She answers, when what she wants to say is 'I know _you_ ,'. "But some things happen for no rhyme or reason."

He presses his lips into a thin line at this. "That won't do. If they want to despise me, I'll give them a reason to."

Her own mouth hovers over the rim of her drink. Words and then sentences enter her head, but none pass through her pretty lips.

* * *

"Do you think the princess has more freedom than you?” Came his question.

“Anna?” Elsa bites her lower lip, unafraid to show the side of her she usually hides. Not many know that she is easily anxious. Her blue eyes are downcast and her trembling hands clasped together as she vaguely answers, “I suppose you could say that.”

“That’s not fair, is it?” He tells her, planting small seeds of rebellion in her head.

“I’m used to it,” She says.

He winces at her reply and she wishes she hadn’t caught the expression.

“Have you noticed,” He continues, “that you’ve been put on a shorter leash?”

She turns to him, resisting the urge to fiddle with her hands or adjust her bun. “What do you mean?” He hasn’t heard the rumours of her life before he came, has he?

“I mean,” He blinks at her, red eyelashes rippling under emerald eyes. “The princess tells me that you used to stroll around the gardens, visit the library and the kitchens; now you’re confined to your study and apartments, what changed?”

‘You did,’ She wants to say, before thinking that Hans isn’t the only one being subjected to fault. In a way, the council is punishing her too. They act as if she’s betrayed her people by keeping _him_ by her side.

It isn’t as if she befriended Prince Johannes Westergaard out of revenge. She’s not doing this to get back at the community who’s always looked at her with disgust when she’s never done anything to earn it.

Without a shadow of a doubt, Elsa knows she cannot tell Hans this as a reason. So her gloved hand flies up to her hair, trying to find a stray strand to tuck away, as Hans patiently waits for her to reply.

Finally, she answers him with a lie.

“I don’t know,”

* * *

It isn’t until a particular sequence of long meetings does she find herself beaten down and tired. The dark circles under her eyes are prominent against her pale skin and her usual regal grace slips.

“Queen Elsa?”

A small grin spreads against her lips. It is a habit for her subjects to call her ‘Your Majesty’, it is more formal, more elegant, less personal, less human. So she recognises the speaker before turning to him.

“Prince Hans,” Elsa addresses back. “How are you?”

She hasn’t seen him for perhaps a fortnight. Not face-to-face, at least. He usually sits on the far end of the dining table during meals.

“Fine,” He replies. Now stepping closer, he can see the shadows under his gaze. “What about you?” He doesn’t give her much time to answer before he concludes, “You look exhausted, you should rest.”

“I can’t,” She replies without thinking. “I have a mountain of paperwork to attend to,”

“Is it something you must do tonight?”

“There is no set deadline, but I mustn’t delay my duties,” Elsa says, though her excuse is unconvincing.

“Surely they are not your sole responsibility? You’re the queen, you should trouble someone else with the trivial work. What are your councilmen doing?” Hans presses on.

 _Bossing me around,_ Elsa thinks. But she must have said it aloud too, because Hans lets out a snort. A fierce blush crawls up her neck and face before attacking her cheeks.

“If you’re so stubborn as to not take rest, then why don’t I give you a hand?” Hans suggests. 

Elsa’s embarrassing state lessens, replaced by a look that tells the thirteenth prince that she is taken aback.

“It is only paperwork, is it not?” He asks her, sizing down the circumstance, giving her no room to decline.

She will admit, when he’s looking at her with _those eyes_ , it’s hard to say ‘no’. And before she knows it, they’re in her study; sitting on opposite sides of the table, peeking at each other between the stacks of paperwork and sharing smiles.

He assigns himself half of the work, and she strangely feels _loved_ and _taken care of_. He could be selfish, only taking care of his needs but _he's not_. He's spending hours with her, and spending time and energy on a person means love, right? It means dedication and effort, and if he didn't care about her then he wouldn't be here, making her feel warm.

In between the ink on their hands and the stacks of reports to read, she slips in a few words about the old men that govern her. _Gossip_ is a word for it. Another would be _ranting._

The more she speaks, the more her blood boils. The rage sucks her in; down _down_ **down** into a rabbit hole. Then _he_ appears; cupping her previously red cheeks between his hands. He looks at her face, at her features, and says what she’s always wanted to hear, says the words she deems as true.

“You’re perfect,” He says to her. “You’re beautiful.”

She kisses him then, overwhelmed by emotion. Before this, before Hans, she could never think that anyone would love an abomination like her.

* * *

When they're kissing, she steadies her heart to his ragged breaths and counts to the rhythm of her cold fingers tapping along the side of his strong jaw. _One, two, three._

He touches the crook of her elbow, her exposed wrists, the inside of her thighs and intimate places that _should not_ be spoken outside of the bedroom, _should not_ be said far away from his ears.

She feels satisfied, feels so _full_ for the brief moments they have together, feels _in control._

With her fingers threading through his hair, expertly knowing where to grasp and touch, she earns soft moans from his lips. Each time she succeeds in making him groan and ask for more, a part of her celebrates. She smirks, leaving kisses against his freckled skin as proof of her mini victories.

He must have felt her curled lips stretched into a grin because he pushes his mouth harder against hers, as if he can't get enough of her. It makes her dizzy, sending Elsa into moments of blind passion; backs pressed against walls and then a bed underneath her.

She didn't even think it was possible but it was like her body had a mind of its own — her hips moving by itself and her hands shaking as she held onto him as her breathing shuddered. Her mind, on the other hand, wasn't blank but it wasn't useful either. She couldn't think straight; only having thoughts that ran faster than she could keep them, like how impatient she was at his teasings, how she _needed_ more because she was absolutely soaking and — Oh God, yes! Please, _please!_

She had found no reason to be punished by her relatives, her people and those she despised — until now. Or, at least, that’s what she tells herself. That she’ll be the strange oddity they’ve always prophesied her to be, now they can hate her to their heart's content.

* * *

They must not have hidden their love affair well enough; maybe there was evidence of hickeys on her pale neck, her uplifted mood or the way the councilmen stared at each other _knowingly_ , because she’s drawn back, locked behind closed doors.

Of course, they can’t keep her away. Not for long. She always finds a way out. It is at the loneliest hour of the night when she craves him does he appear from thin air or the shadows. 

By then, she wishes for him to take her somewhere far away. Far from Arendelle. Maybe into the woods, where the forest trees are tall and unknown. She does what he says to her in the dark, with the hum of his voice pressed against her throat and his lengthy penis deep inside her.

She doesn’t want to be needy, but she thinks she portrays herself as such, she thinks it was a bad idea opening her doors to him as he grows tired of her with each passing day. 

This is not the anxieties living in her head feeding her lies, she knows he is exhausted of her. She'd wake up the day after, try to kiss him, only to have him reject her affections. She’d watch the way the muscles in his cheek jump and try not to cry as he recoils.

Oh, how **wrong** she was for trusting him. And how she **hates** how skilful he is at averting his gaze. He’s good at that. Maybe _too good._ He has a tendency when it comes to turning his head when he doesn't want her. _Her._ The Queen.

The truth is: he doesn’t love her. 

But he loves running his hands through her thick hair; loves making her beg and immersing himself in the soft touch of the curves of her breasts; loves the way she shivers when he brushes against a specific spot at the back of her head or the folds between her legs.

She supposes she’s reduced to this. And she should tell him to stop. Stop. _Just stop._ But —

He kisses her neck, her cheekbones, her jaw — all while tenderly touching her face, all while avoiding her lips. He kisses her on the forehead and her hairline and her temples as if he could kiss the bad thoughts away, planting false care and artificial warmth that used to be lovely. He kisses the mountains of her knuckles like he's some chivalrous prince, her blue eyes take in the gesture but she's already disassociating, she doesn't even know why she's here to begin with.

It's difficult to push away her desires when he's kissing the shell of her ear _like that_ , slowly inching closer to her mouth before trailing onto her jaw and down her throat, then to her marked collarbone and shoulders.

Finally, he kisses her on the lips — slow, and then with feeling.

And after a long heartbreak, she kisses him back.

* * *

There are times she mistakens his needs for intimacy and tenderness due to the high of being caressed. Where she thinks what he seeks from her aren’t just orgasms; where he is slow, taking his time to stroke her cheek almost lovingly and kiss her eyelids, giving her the attention she didn't even know she craved and wanted until it happened.

Elsa finds herself asking if this is how she fooled herself into thinking that he loves her when he really doesn't?

Any time there is doubt, he pulls her back to the moment of their bodies, and the heat and sweat. 

She wants to hate him. But if she does, that would be hypocritical because she's been here before, been down that path where she knows she'll say _anything_ to cum. The sex is _enough, should be enough._ She _should_ settle for _just the fucking_ — the cold doesn't bother her, but a warm body isn't bad either — at the very least, she’s feeling _something_ other than loneliness and sadness and anger.

But then, she catches herself feeling guilty each time she’s lain with him. Her mantra does not keep her sane despite repeatedly telling herself that she does not need his love.

She tries to wash away the shame the same way a person washes blood from their hands; feverishly. She throws herself into her royal duties, burying herself in work. The royal council soon catches on and announces their thoughts on the thirteenth prince, _“The bastard’s title and privileges does little to none to benefit Arendelle and its people.”_

In a moment of weakness, she agrees and complies — she’ll let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes 1: Thank you to my ex-wife for editing this because — me @ my own writing:
> 
> Notes 2: Janice DO NOT text me about this!!! There’s nothing to say, and I’m gonna quote something Melody once said to me in 2018: The world is on fire, you may as well have sex. There is no correlation, but I just thought it’d be funny to put the quote here.
> 
> — 22 November 2020


End file.
